Knight of Narnia
by ElouiseBates
Summary: Sir Eustace Clarence Scrubb? He never got to be a king or queen, but he could be a knight.
1. Sir Eustace, the Undragoned

"I say, Ed."

Edmund turned from the glimmering Silver Sea to face his unusually nervous kinsman. "What's up?"

"Are you a knight?"

Edmund blinked at the unexpected question, but answered promptly. "I am."

Eustace's eyes widened. "Gosh. Really?"

"Yes, really," Edmund laughed. "A knight of the Noble Order of the Table. Aslan himself," in a rather awed tone himself, "knighted me on the fields of Beruna."

"Gosh," Eustace said again. "What did you do? I mean—how did you earn it?"

Edmund looked at him curiously: a short, stocky figure with wide blue eyes and brown hair ruffled by the warm breeze, with an earnest expression on his face. "Why this sudden interest in knights?"

Eustace squirmed. "Reepicheep told me a lot about them when I was—you know—a dragon. And now all the sailors are talking about Caspian making them knights when they get back to Narnia, and I was just wondering," he finished lamely.

Edmund seated himself cross-legged on the deck, gesturing for Eustace to sit next to him. "A knight of Narnia," he began in solemn tones, "must be willing to sacrifice himself for the good of Narnia. He must be valorous and great in courtesy; he must help those in need, even to the point of harm to himself; he must swear to defend the defenceless. He must be loyal and truthful. No task is too humble; no challenge too great. Above all, he must always serve Aslan."

Eustace's face fell. "That's an awful lot."

Edmund shrugged. "That is why it is such a great honour to be a knight."

"So you don't have to be a squire or anything first, like in England?"

Edmund shook his head. "Not in Narnia. You simply must earn the honour."

"And how did you earn it?"

Edmund's face shadowed. "I fought in the battle against the Witch," he answered obliquely. "Eustace—did you want to be a knight?"

"Of course not!" Eustace scoffed. "I'm a Republican, you know."

Edmund hastily covered his smile with one hand and pretended to cough.

"Besides," Eustace continued gloomily, "I've done nothing to earn it. All I've managed to accomplish on this trip is to make a complete nuisance of myself. And destroy Caspian's second-best sword," he added.

Edmund could see that Eustace really would like to be a knight, but was too shy to admit it. "You were the first in battle against the Sea Serpent," he said gravely. ""You bore the dragon curse nobly. You have sailed alongside us and King Caspian through many dangers. And most importantly, you have followed the Lion. Not one man in Narnia could say as much as you, my brave cousin."

Eustace turned rather pink. "Oh—I say"—he stammered. "You make it sound grand—but it wasn't really—I mean, I didn't do"—

"Eustace," Edmund told him, "I am a king, you know. I could knight you."

Eustace's face went from pink to bright red. "Really?" he squeaked. "You could—would you?"

Edmund rose swiftly. "Kneel," he said in his most kingly tone.

Eustace glanced about. They appeared to be alone on the stern. He gulped once or twice, and knelt.

Edmund put his hand to his waist. "Bother," he said. "I've left my sword in the cabin."

"Take mine, Sire," Reepicheep said, coming into sight unexpectedly. He bowed. "It would be an honour to lend it for such a task as this."

"Thanks, Reep," Edmund said, taking the rapier. It was tiny in his hand, no bigger than a dagger, but he used held it as solemnly as if it had been Rhindon itself. "Do you, Eustace Clarence Scrubb, vow to uphold the laws of Narnia, defend her honour, serve her lords, and follow Aslan for as long as he grants you leave?"

Eustace looked very small and uncertain on his knees. "I—well—I'll try," he said.

Edmund's fair hair glittered in the sunlight as he tapped Eustace once on each shoulder with the rapier. "Then I, King Edmund of Narnia, Duke of the Lantern Waste and Count of the Western March, do bestow upon thee the Knighthood of the Noble Order of the Table. Bear it well."

He handed the rapier back to Reepicheep, who bowed low, and offered his hand to his cousin. "Rise, Sir Eustace the Un-Dragoned."

Eustace stumbled to his feet, and Edmund kissed him on both cheeks (which surprised Eustace very much).

"I say—thanks," he said inadequately.

"Welcome to our brotherhood, Sir Eustace," Reepicheep piped.

"Thanks, Reep." Eustace bit his lip. "Ed—Reep—d'you mind—I mean, _would_ you not tell the others about this? I don't want to look silly."

Reepicheep looked offended, but Edmund forestalled him. "It will be our secret," he said with quiet assurance, "until such time as you wish to reveal it. Come, Reepicheep."

The mouse and the king walked away, leaving Narnia's newest knight alone on the deck. He looked out across the Silver Sea.

"A knight," he whispered. "Gosh."

* * *

_**Author's Note:** I always felt bad for Eustace, that he never got a title. All the Pevensies were kings and queens, Digory, Polly, and Jill were referred to as "Lord" and "Lady," and he was always just Eustace (or useless, depending on to whom you were speaking. Maybe even used to it). So, this is a three-part look at Eustace as a knight: one for each book in which he appears. At least, it will be a three-part look, once I have time to write the other two chapters. Reviews always welcome! I'm still nervous about Narnia fanfics, so please tell me how I can improve.  
_


	2. Aslan's Follower

The last time Eustace had soared through the air, he had been the one with wings. Riding on somebody else's back was a new experience for him, but he rather enjoyed it.

"Where are we going, again?" he asked the owl.

"To the Marshwiggles," the owl hooted.

"And what's a Marshwiggle, exactly?"

"Ah! Now that's hard to describe. You'll know when you meet him—you can't mistake a Wiggle for anything else." The owl snapped at a passing insect, and Eustace gripped a little tighter with his knees.

"Shall I catch anything for you?" the owl inquired politely. "I imagine you must be a mite peckish after the council?"

"I'm not hungry, thanks," Eustace said hurriedly. He hoped Pole and Glimfeather were doing all right. She had been so tired; imagine if she fell asleep and fell off the owl!

_ She's not scared of heights, though,_ he thought a little snidely. Then he felt ashamed. He was a knight, and it did not become him to harbour a grudge against anyone.

Besides, if they had to go on this long journey together, it wouldn't be wise to start out angry.

"I'm afraid it's a bit cold for you up there!" his owl called anxiously. "You haven't got feathers to keep you warm."

"I don't feel a bit cold," Eustace said with perfect truth. "I think the air's smashing." He felt exhilarated, as though he could climb a mountain or swim an ocean, or wrestle a dragon—

Well. Maybe not wrestle a dragon.

Still, here he was, Sir Eustace the Un-Dragoned (he wished Edmund had given him a better title: Sir Eustace the Brave, or something), back in Narnia, questing forth on a charge given by Aslan, a lone hero, sent to bring Caspian's only son back to the throne … it all sounded like something out of one of those books Edmund had lent him last summer.

He glanced back as Glimfeather and the small, hunched figure on his back. He wasn't exactly a lone hero, he supposed. Nor was he exactly _back_ in Narnia, as he'd never actually _been_ here before. And the charge, technically, had been given to Pole, not him.

Good grief! Was she the heroine, and he—could it be—the sidekick?

"Well," he said aloud crossly, "that would just beat everything!"

* * *

"I want the sword!" Pole crossed her arms and looked incredibly stubborn.

"It's _my_ sword," Eustace snapped.

"Why should you carry it, and not me?"

A dozen practical reasons sprang up in Eustace's mind: Pole was tiny—the sword would trip her up if she wore it at her waist, and be too heavy if she carried it across her back. He knew how to use a sword, while she had never handled one in her life. He had been the one with the foresight to bring a weapon from Cair Paravel, not her.

With all that, he chose the worst possible excuse. "You're a _girl_," he sneered.

Pole looked ready to fly at him. "What has that got to do with anything?"

"Ah," said Puddleglum, "there you are. I thought as much. That's what usually happens on adventures."

Eustace swallowed his words, and Pole turned on her heel and flounced off to fetch some more blankets.

_Poorly done, Son of Adam,_ a high-pitched voice sounded in his memory.

"Shut up, Reep," he muttered. "This is my adventure, not yours. And not Pole's, either! I'm the one who's done this sort of thing before. If it wasn't for me, she wouldn't even be here. I could have left her to face Them back at school."

"Talking to yourself?" Puddleglum asked. "They do say that's the first sign of madness, you know. I shouldn't wonder if we _all_ weren't talking to ourselves by the end of our journey."

* * *

Eustace hated giants. Walking past them, slowly and calmly, while they were hurling stones past him, was even worse than falling off the edge of Aslan's Mountain. For the first time in his life, he wished he was still a dragon. Even giants would think twice before messing with a dragon.

Of course, if he was still a dragon, he'd still be stuck on Dragon Island with a golden bracelet biting into his arm, he would never have met Aslan, and he never would have become a knight or travelled to the World's End.

Maybe the giants weren't so bad.

"I can't stand much more of this," Pole shrilled suddenly. Her face was white and drawn, and her eyes stared wildly.

"Buck up, Pole," Eustace said encouragingly. "It can't last much longer."

"Steady," added Puddleglum. "If they notice us it'll only get worse."

"How can you be so calm?" Pole snapped at Eustace. "When Puddleglum told us about the giants you were in a worse funk than I was!"

Eustace started to snap back, but he held his temper in check. After all, she was right. "Sometimes thinking about the thing is worse than the thing itself," he said in a muddled fashion. "Now we're here—we just have to get past them. You know—it's like going to the dentist. Thinking about it is worse than having him actually pull the tooth."

"Oh, you're hopeless," Pole said unfairly. "How can you compare giants to the dentist, of all things?"

"It's the _principle_," he tried to explain, but she just told him to shut up.

He gave up. Sometimes you just had to let people be miserable.

He was rather proud of himself when they finally made it past the giants. He hadn't run or screamed or done anything cowardly. He hadn't done anything particularly _heroic_, either, but it was a start. And during the next several days, when he saw how impressed Pole was at his shooting ability, and felt how much stronger and hardier he was than when they had first arrived, he started to think he was doing quite well as a knight. Why, he'd hit that last bird with his first try. Even Caspian couldn't have hit it fairer.

Maybe sometime he would tell Pole how Edmund had knighted him aboard _Dawn Treader_. She'd be green with envy! Then she'd realize that this was his adventure, maybe start showing him some proper respect.

He doubted it, though. And deep down inside, in that nagging voice that sounded so much like Reepicheep, he knew that getting puffed up with pride was _not_ knightly behaviour.

Aslan, he knew, wouldn't like it at all.

* * *

Eustace kicked the window seat. He would rather have kicked himself, but that was physiologically quite challenging. "So it's no good, Pole. I know what you were thinking because I was thinking the same thing. You were thinking how nice it would have been if Aslan hadn't put the instructions on the stones of the ruined city until after we'd passed it. And then it would have been his fault, not ours. So likely, isn't it?" He could hear the sarcasm in his own voice—sarcasm directed at himself more than Pole. "No. We must just own up. We've only four signs to go by, and we've muffed the first three."

Pole generously tried to take the blame on herself, even claiming that she'd spoiled everything since Scrubb had brought her here, but he barely heard her. What kind of a knight was he? Chasing after silly dreams of honour and glory instead of focusing on the task at hand—the task that Aslan had given them!

That Lady—the Lady of the Green Kirtle—it would have been nice to blame her, but Eustace knew he couldn't even do that. If he'd been properly focused on Aslan, if his whole being had been wrapped up in seeking the Signs, he never would have listened to her.

He'd been a fool. Worse than a fool, he'd been a knave. If Edmund had been there, he would have stripped him of his knighthood, and rightly so. _Edmund_ wouldn't have bought into the Lady's sweet words. Ed wouldn't have forgotten the reason Aslan had brought him to Narnia. Even Lucy would have done better!

They would simply have to get out, that was all. From now on, Eustace didn't care how many feasts the giants had, how warm and cosy their beds were, or how large of fires they had. From now on, he would think only of Aslan.

And he'd stop making fun of Puddleglum and _listen_ to him once in a while.

* * *

Eustace stared, horrified, as the shimmering green serpent wrapped herself around Prince Rilian's body. One moment he had been half asleep under the Witch's enchantment. Then Puddleglum had smashed the fire—good old Puddleglum!—and reminded them all of the _truth_.

Then this! Before he could blink the Witch became a serpent.

"Come on, Scrubb!" Puddleglum shouted, and Eustace shook off the deadly fear that enveloped him and raced to the prince's aid. He tried to aim for the serpent's neck, but he was too short, and his awkward blow merely skittered off her scales.

"Blast," he muttered beneath his breath.

The serpent loosened her grip on Rilian, but she wasn't quite dead. Eustace joined the other two in grimly hacking off her head. It was a horrid business, and Eustace felt quite sick to his stomach when they were finally finished, all covered in green slime and sweat. He didn't wonder that Pole was sitting down in the corner with a white face.

"Gentlemen, I thank you," the prince said formally.

Eustace didn't feel that he had earned much thanks. After all, Puddleglum and Rilian had struck the killing blows. In fact, he couldn't quite see what good he'd done on this entire blasted journey at all. Pole and Puddleglum could have managed quite nicely without him.

He walked a little ways away from the other three and cleaned off his sword. That was something Edmund had taught him—never, ever put your sword away messy. He took a bit longer than necessary, just to give himself a chance to get over this shakiness.

By the Lion! He had nearly been taken in by the Witch's lies. No—no nearly about it. She had enchanted him, truly and fully. He'd believed that there was no Aslan, no sun, no Overworld … that there was nothing in life but despair and darkness.

He'd felt like he had before he became a dragon—that same bleak misery of thinking that life had no purpose, that there was no point to anything. Oh, the relief he'd felt when Aslan had taken all that from him! He felt light—free as—as anything. He could have flown even without those horrid bat wings.

He shuddered. He never, never wanted to get trapped in that kind of hopeless despair again. What would they have done without Puddleglum and his wonderful obstinacy? They'd be slaves, that's what would have happened. Slaves to that black pit.

The others at school—_They_—wouldn't believe in anything they couldn't see or touch or hear. They'd laugh him and Pole to scorn if ever they told about Narnia.

Eustace had been like that once. He refused to believe in anything that wasn't scientifically proven. But now—now he knew better.

"From now on," he vowed, remembering Puddleglum's words, "it doesn't matter where I am—Narnia or England. It doesn't matter what happens. _I'm on Aslan's side even if there isn't any Aslan to lead it. I'm going to live as like a Narnian as I can even if there isn't any Narnia._ The others—all those in our world—might say this is just a dream, a made-up game. But that doesn't matter. I swore to defend Narnia to the death, to follow Aslan as long as he grants me breath. Well, that's what I'm going to do."

He rejoined the others just in time to hear the prince suggest taking a bit of a breather and then making plans.

"A jolly good idea, Sir," he said.

* * *

_**Author's Note:** This, obviously, will not make much sense to you if you haven't read The Silver Chair. Some bits and pieces of dialogue are lifted directly from the book. The rest is wedged between the lines that Lewis wrote._

_I'm still not sure about this story as a whole. My skeptical half tells me it's rubbish. My optimistic side tells me to keep writing. What do the readers say? (You can tell me it's rubbish, if that's what you think. I won't be offended)_


	3. A Knight's Duty

Eustace sat on the grass, cleaning his sword. He was still ashamed of putting it back in its sheath messy like that. Even when he'd helped hack of the Green Serpent's head, he had remembered to clean his sword.

Of course, _She_ wasn't exactly human. Eustace still felt a bit sick when he thought about how he—well—he had killed that fellow.

It wasn't even so much fear, though he'd certainly experienced some of that. No, all sorts of strange thoughts had rushed into his head when he'd looked down to see that Calormene lying all bloody and—dead—at his feet.

What was the soldier's name? Had he really been such a bad chap, or was he just serving his country? Did he worship Tash, and had he ever had the chance to know Aslan? Did he hate dwarfs, or was he just following orders?

King Tirian had congratulated him, but Eustace knew it was just blind luck on his part that he had won the battle. He still wasn't quite sure how he had defeated a trained soldier some years older than himself. He had just closed his eyes and prayed desperately to Aslan, and somehow, had succeeded.

"Some knight," he muttered, polishing away at the curved blade. "Practically funked my first real fight, and now I wish I hadn't done it at all."

He put all his energy into cleaning away every trace of blood from the sword and making it as shiny as possible. When he finished, he felt somewhat better.

After all, those dwarfs were heading to slavery and death. If he hadn't helped King Tirian rescue them, they would be in Calormen right now!

A knight had to protect the land and the people, regardless of how he felt. This adventure wasn't anywhere near as exciting or daring as the first two, but Eustace knew that it was just as, if not more, important as they had been. Everything he did here counted: he was no longer in Edmund's shadow, or fighting with Pole for the role of hero.

He was here to serve his king—King Tirian—and to help lead Narnia back to Aslan. Narnian knight or English schoolboy, it didn't much matter anymore which he was. He was both and he was neither: he was just here to serve.

In whatever way he could.

* * *

Eustace was glad to walk with Pole on their final trip to Stable Hill. Earlier, before Farsight had found them, he had enjoyed walking and talking to Poggin. He hadn't had much experience with Narnian dwarfs (aside from Trumpkin, who called him useless and said he smelled), and for a little while, chatting cheerily with Poggin about Narnian and English plants, he could forget the horrible things happening around them.

Now, though, the horrible things were there, and he needed the comfort of an old friend. Despite their many spats, Eustace knew he had no friend like old Pole. Which was why he confessed to her something he never thought he could say to anyone.

"Pole, I may as well tell you I've got the wind up."

"Oh, _you're_ all right, Scrubb. You can fight." Pole had never paid him such a compliment, and at the moment Eustace only wished we was worthy of it. "But I—I'm just shaking, if you want to know the truth."

Though Eustace was embarrassed to admit it, he could only reply to her confession with one of his own. "Oh, shaking's nothing. I'm feeling I'm going to be sick."

Pole turned slightly green and begged him to talk about something else. Eustace couldn't stop thinking about their plans for that night. They were all going to die, he just knew it. He had faced death before, but never with such certainty.

His cousins jokingly called him a pessimist, but Eustace doubted even _they_ could find a way out of this mess.

Well, maybe Peter.

But Eustace wasn't the High King; he was nothing but a secret knight with a queasy stomach. And all of the sudden he realized he didn't want to die, he was too young, he had too much of his life to live, he hadn't done enough yet. He'd never even said goodbye to his mother. She had been angry with him for running off to spend time with the Pevensies and Pole during the holidays, instead of going with her to another one of her lectures.

Eustace hadn't wanted to fight with her, so he just dashed silently through the rain to the waiting cab, figuring he'd make it up to her when he got back.

Now he wasn't going back, and he had so many regrets.

He couldn't stand thinking about it in silence anymore, and asked Pole a technical question that had been bothering him for days. Maybe she had a better idea of what would happen after they were dead—whether they'd be dead in England, too, or just what.

Pole expressed her usual horror as Eustace's practical way of looking at the most dreadful ideas, and ended with, "I almost wish—no I don't, though."

"What were you going to say?"

"I _was_ going to say that I wished we'd never come. But I don't, I don't, I don't." Pole was very emphatic about this, even stamping her foot down for emphasis. "Even if we _are_ killed. I'd rather be killed fighting for Narnia than grow old and stupid at home and perhaps go about in a bath-chair and then die in the end just the same."

Eustace couldn't help but feel better. Pole might be overdramatic about some things, but in this case, he thought her exaggeration was right on the mark. She was right: they were going to die someday, and what better way for a knight to go out then fighting for his land? After all, he knew where he was going: Aslan's country. He'd been there before, to the mountain on top of the world.

Pole was still looking upset, so he hastened to assure her he was in agreement. "Or be smashed up by the British Railways!"

"Why d'you say that?"

"Well when that awful jerk came—the one that seemed to throw us into Narnia—I thought it _was_ the beginning of a railway accident. So I was jolly glad to find ourselves here instead."

And still am, he could have added, but he didn't need to. Pole understood.

Better to die for Narnia than live without Aslan.

* * *

Eustace looked around, blinking. He couldn't understand where he was. One minute, he had been fighting desperately, putting all his love for Narnia and his anger at what the Calormenes were doing to it behind every stroke. Part of him really wanted to cut the dwarfs down for their murder of the Talking Horses, but the logical, rational part of him knew that they weren't the enemy.

So he fought, and fought, and fought, but the toll of the previous battle began to show, and eventually one soldier got in under his guard and dealt him a blow to the head that dazed him and sent the blood running down his face.

Still Eustace tried to fight, but he was half-blinded by his own blood. He was determined to go out fighting, though, as became a knight.

He finished off the soldier who had wounded him and turned to face yet one more. This was the largest Calormene he had yet seen, and he had the face of a hardened warrior. Eustace knew instinctively that this was the one who would do for him.

"Aslan, into thy paws I commit my spirit," he muttered, the lines half-remember from something he'd heard long ago, maybe even in England.

The soldier knocked Eustace's shield flying with one blow of his scimitar. The next stroke sent Eustace's sword spinning across the grass. Eustace fell to his knees and prayed he'd go out bravely.

But the warrior—oh, the indignity!—didn't kill him. Instead, he picked Eustace up and tucked him under his arm like a parcel as he ran toward the stable. Realizing that he was going to be used as an offering to Tash, Eustace kicked and scratched, using every dirty trick he had ever learned at school to try to free himself. _Anything_ was better than ending in the stable.

It was no use. The soldier just laughed, and with one heave of his mighty arm, threw Eustace through the gaping mouth.

Which was when he blinked, and wondered what had happened.

It was … yes, it positively was bright! And he didn't feel the slightest bit thirsty or hungry or sore or _anything_.

He put a hand to his head and tentatively fingered his wound. It was gone, without even the slightest bit of pain or blood to show it had ever been there.

Eustace was still sprawled ungracefully on the warm grass when he heard a light laugh. He looked up.

"Lucy?"

It was indeed: Lucy and Edmund, and Peter, and Aunt Polly and the Professor. They stood there, looking at him with loving amusement in their eyes.

Eustace suddenly scrambled to his feet and bowed low. He realized he was in the presence, not of his cousins, but of Narnia's greatest rulers and heroes.

"I say, old chap, you don't need to bow to us," High King Peter said, striding forward and raising him up. He peered anxiously into Eustace's face. "Are you all right, then?"

Eustace swallowed back tears. He would _not_ cry! "I failed," he said, looking past Peter at Ed—Edmund, the king who had knighted him, the one who had believed in him. "I couldn't save Narnia this time. I'm sorry."

Edmund laughed and jostled Peter aside to hug Eustace. "You silly ass," he said affectionately. "You gave your all for Narnia. Isn't that enough for you?"

Eustace felt relieved; all the weight suddenly lifted off his shoulders, and he laughed out of pure joy. He looked around. "Where are we? And what are you doing here? I say, you really are kings and a queen, aren't you?" gazing with frank awe at their crowns.

Lucy smiled and came forward, taking something off his head and showing it to him.

"Eustace—so are you."

Eustace looked at the crown. He didn't deserve it, he knew, but there it was, another mark of Aslan's grace to him, the lowest of servants.

"_Sir_ Eustace?" he whispered to himself, while Edmund grinned understandingly. "King Eustace!"

* * *

_**Author's Note: **Wow, major writer's block hit long and hard with this chapter! Here it is, and with it the completion of the story. Thank you all so much for your kind and encouraging reviews._

_Oh--in case any of you are bothered by Edmund's use of the word "ass," I am using it as Lewis did, as another word for donkey, and not the American use, as a swear word._


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